Defining Traits
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Meta-Fiction tag story: Even when they're broken on the surface, some things go far deeper and remain solid.


**Defining Traits**  
 **K Hanna Korossy**

Sam woke with the buzz of unease under his skin.

He was still tired, and it took some seconds for his thoughts to settle, dreams separating from reality, the current reality from the various others they'd lived. Sometimes he had to work to remember if Dean was dead or not—but the dread waiting for him wasn't that bad—or whether Bobby was really gone, or what they were trying to save the world from this time. Oh, right: Abaddon. And Metatron. And Gadreel, whom they'd released back to Metatron just the day before. And the Mark on Dean's arm, which had almost pushed Dean into killing Gadreel.

That was where the disquiet came from, Sam realized. Facing Gadreel had brought it all back: the horror of the memories that weren't his, of Kevin dying in front of him, of the way Dean had tricked him. Hurt that had finally begun to heal was fresh again.

But then there was also the memory of Dean slumped against the wall next to a bloody Gadreel, telling Sam in a wrecked voice, _"He wanted to die, and I was gonna kill him."_ Not seeming sure himself if he was distraught over almost having beaten the angel to death, or that he'd stopped himself from doing it. Sleep had eluded Sam a long time as he played back that scene.

He didn't know anymore if he was more mad at his brother, or scared for him.

Sam sighed and pushed himself to get up. He still wasn't sure he was ready for whatever he'd find outside his room, but putting it off wouldn't make it any better.

Dean was waiting for him in the kitchen as he shuffled in. There was a coffee mug at his elbow and smudges under his eyes from doubtless another sleepless night, but at least he seemed himself. Well, the himself he'd been since Gadreel and all the crap from the last…six months? Year? Decade? Sam swallowed another sigh. "'Morning."

Dean only raised an eyebrow at him over the open laptop before rising to fetch him a plate from the oven. Warm hash browns, a trio of eggs, and about a half-pound of bacon. When he caught Sam looking at his scabbed knuckles as he set the plate down, Dean quickly tucked his hand away.

Well, the food was a nice surprise, anyway. With everything going on, mealtimes often fell by the wayside, and Sam's stomach growled loudly at the smells. He dug in.

Dean waited until he was mopping up yolk with the toast before clearing his throat, instantly putting Sam back on guard.

"So," he took a breath, "think I found a case."

Sam didn't stop chewing but he knew his doubtfulness showed. There were so many threats beating down their door, they didn't even know where to start; the last thing they needed was a hunt.

"Not your just-another-day-at-the-office case," Dean quickly clarified. "People are acting weird in Midwest."

Sam swallowed the last bite. "That narrows it down."

Dean shook his head. "No, uh, the town of Midwest. Wyoming." He flipped the laptop around toward Sam. "Population: four hundred, and more than their share of crazy. Maybe more soulless vics?"

Sam peered closely at the small print, getting as far as the guy who burned down his house, pets and all, and the teenage girl who'd stabbed her boyfriend with a pen when he cheated on her, and had to concede his brother's point. "Yeah, maybe." He glanced up at Dean.

At the hunger for a hunt in Dean's eyes.

The food soured in his stomach. Sam pushed the plate away. "You sure you're up for this?"

Dean's eyebrows rose in disbelief. "You're kidding, right? If this is Abaddon, this could be the break we're lookin' for."

And the Hell of it was, he was right. He'd gotten that damned Mark just so he could kill Abaddon. They'd dispatched a—albeit insane—Man of Letters to acquire the Blade to go with it. Crowley had it tucked away, just waiting for them to find Abaddon. This literally could be just what they'd been looking for.

And the trepidation in Sam was choking him.

"Uh, so." He took a breath, then a gulp of Dean's coffee, grimacing when he found it cold. "I've been thinking." Stayed awake half the night doing so, no less.

"Well, that never ends well," Dean said absently, focus back on the laptop.

"No, seriously."

Something about Sam's tone must've gotten through to his brother, because he suddenly had Dean's full attention. It didn't help.

Sam swallowed, then went for it.

"Maybe we should think about…me finishing the third Trial."

00000

Dean blinked, replaying the words, and decided he'd heard right. "No."

Sam sighed. "Dean—"

"Did I say no? I meant, _Hell,_ no!" He hadn't even realized he was on his feet until he found himself looming. "No way, Sam. Just 'cause you've mostly healed up from the Trials—after they almost freakin' _killed_ you—doesn't mean we're gonna risk it all again on this."

"Dean, listen. The Mark is—" Sam tried to get up, obviously seeking equal footing with Dean, but Dean wasn't allowing it on any level. He shoved Sam back down and glared at him.

Sam blew out a sigh, but it seemed less anger than exasperation. He always got miffed when Dean wouldn't let him be suicidal. "If we close Hell, we trap the souls there, right? It might even lock up all Abaddon's demons below, too, who knows? It could stop her. Maybe it would even throw a wrench into Metatron's plans."

"Do you hear yourself?" Dean asked incredulously. "'Might,' 'could,' 'maybe'—we don't know _anything._ We could risk it all and not even slow her or Metatron down."

Sam opened his mouth, but Dean didn't let up.

"And look how closing Heaven turned out. All those souls trapped in the Veil, can't get up there. If we slam Hell shut, too, nobody's goin' anywhere. And those are the Hell-bound souls, Sam—you want them hanging around up here?"

Sam folded in on himself, getting smaller. "I don't know, all right? I just…I think we should keep it on the table, just in case."

Dean was about to insist that the option not even be in the same hemisphere as the table, but stopped himself. Sam was stubborn, angry, and worried. He'd just been starting to trust Dean again, maybe to even forgive him. The last thing Dean needed was to forbid his adult brother from considering this plan. That wasn't the way to Sam's head, or his heart.

Dean dropped back into his seat and rubbed a hand over his eyes. The kid wasn't the only one who was exhausted and scared. "Please," he finally murmured, and felt his brother's gaze jump to him. He looked up, feeling more naked than he'd ever gotten for any girl. "Please, just… Not now, not unless it's the last bullet in the gun, okay? But not right now, Sammy. I'm beggin' you." That word that would have been impossible with anyone else, slipped out without effort for Sam.

They didn't do this. Never begged, barely ever said please. Not unless each other's life was at stake, and then it wasn't even an issue. He remembered hearing Sam plead with Lilith for his life, him begging God for Sam's at Cold Oak. He didn't even feel his pride, because the thought of Sam giving himself up, dying in front of him again, was so huge that it blotted out everything else.

Sam was staring at him, and his eyes were bright. Shining hazel, not angelic blue. "Okay, Dean," was all he said, hushed and getting it, thank God. "Okay."

Dean started breathing again.

Sam looked away from him. Turned the laptop back around. His voice was almost normal when he finally said, "When do we leave?"

00000

So, by that afternoon: Wyoming.

One of the perks of being based in Kansas was that they rarely did coast-to-coast trips anymore; just about everything was within a twenty-four hour-drive now. Wyoming wasn't so bad; they rolled into town after about ten hours on the road. But considering his battered back from a possessed nun's attack just a few days before, Sam moved like the arthritic old guy he was well on his way to becoming. He groaned in appreciation when their first stop was a café where Dean got him a large coffee with a muscle relaxant chaser.

He was groaning for a different reason when they finally dragged themselves into a motel room later that night. Sam didn't wait for permission or help, dropping face-down onto the first bed he came across.

"Little tired there, Sammy?" Dean asked with a laugh behind him.

Sam didn't even bother to turn his face out of the pillow. "That sucked."

"Aw, c'mon, it wasn't that bad."

Sam didn't bother answering. He drifted in and out as he heard Dean puttering around the room, taking a shower, going out for sodas. Sam turned his head just enough to have a few sips of the one Dean pressed into his hand, then sighed out his exhaustion as it was plucked from his hand.

"We came for nothing, man," Sam said tiredly, cheek against the rough bedding.

Dean flopped down on the edge of the bed, making it bounce. Sam was just about to, maybe, possibly, rally himself to shove his brother off, when Dean spread a casual hand across his lower back.

His brother always spoke better with actions than words.

"We don't know that," Dean said soothingly. "Okay, so the guy who set the fire already had a few screws loose, and the boyfriend was a real douche—"

Sam lifted a finger—pointer, not middle—and peered up at his brother. "Don't forget the mom who tried to seduce you into letting her daughter go."

Dean shivered dramatically. "Yeah, apple didn't fall far from that tree, did it." He sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair. "Wish we had some kinda way to test for souls, though, like for demons."

"Cas—"

"—is busy now. I don't wanna call him unless we're stuck, you know?"

Yeah, he did know. Their friend was struggling to find a place in the swirl of lost angels following Heaven's shutdown. Leader, prey, savior, scapegoat: his role seemed to change daily, but one thing Cas didn't need right now was their bugging him.

"I still think we should talk to the daughter," Dean was continuing when Sam tuned back in. "Sheriff said she'd be out of the psych ward by lunchtime tomorrow, and we can't make it back home tonight, anyway, right?"

Sam sighed, long and deep. His gut said this wasn't a soul case, not with just two victims, both explicable. But they hadn't exactly cleared it, either, and if people got killed because they took off too early…

"Sam. Hey, you fall asleep on me?"

"Gettin' there," he mumbled. "I wan' a chicken salad san'wich. With Cheetos. An' fruit punch."

Dean snorted a laugh. "Fruit punch? Seriously?"

Sam looked up just enough to give Dean the stink eye.

"Guess that's a yes on staying, then." His brother sounded more amused than intimidated.

Sam would've answered, but he was already asleep.

00000

Sam slept in the next morning. Dean's internal debate was brief before he slipped out the door without waking him.

If he knew his brother, Sam would insist on heading back to Kansas as soon as he was up. And, yeah, the thought of continuing the Abaddon chase called to Dean like a drug, an itch he tried not to think about and mostly failed.

But it still felt like something was here. And, far more importantly, he wanted to keep Sam busy. Not thinking about stupid contingencies like finishing Trials and killing himself. Yeah, that thought cooled the vengeance drive really nicely.

The girl was waiting to be processed, transferred from psych ward to jail, so he was allowed to see her. They had deemed her mentally fit, although Dean had his doubts when he first saw the ragged figure.

She wasn't crazy, though, just sad and confused. She had no recollection of taking a pen to her boyfriend and was swimming in guilt over it. Dean didn't need a soul detector for this one: she had hers in spades. Maybe even something extra, come to think of it, but the standard tests for possession came up negative. Just a messed-up kid, then. Sam had been right.

Sam, who was waiting for him outside the hospital looking tall and ticked-off.

"Seriously, Dean?"

"I just wanted to be sure, dude, give it a rest. And speaking of rest, why aren't you in bed?" He eyed Sam, who looked far better than he'd expected.

His brother led the way back to the Impala, arms flailing. "Because I'm not a _dog_ , you can't just tell me to _stay_."

"Actually, you were still asleep when I left," Dean started logically, "so it wasn't like I told you—"

"Man, you are a piece of work, you know that?" Sam was past hearing, working his way into an impressive head of steam. "You tell me I can't risk myself, then you go off to investigate on your own? You don't want a partner, let alone a brother—you, you want some kind of little… _follower_ who'll blindly do whatever you say."

He was a patient man—okay, occasionally—and Sam still had more than enough right to be mad, but Dean felt his own anger building, with maybe a little nudge from the Mark. "You know what? I have had—"

"And, _and,"_ Sam talked over him, finger stabbing in Dean's direction, "we both know this whole 'case'is just some pathetic attempt to keep me here. You know," he shook his head, "I don't even know why I've stayed with you all these years. I could've been—"

They'd reached the car, and the stand of trees next to it. Although, Dean would be lying if he'd said he worried too much about who would oversee them as he drew the silver blade from his boot with one smooth move and buried it in the other's gut.

"Sam" looked at him in shock, mouth moving soundlessly as his eyes went wide. Then he—it—slumped forward into Dean, who eased the body down to the ground behind a pair of trees.

He stepped back, a little unsteady. There hadn't been a flare of light in the eyes, had there? A shapeshifter's eyes should've glowed when it died. But…the words. There was no way it was Sam. He knew his brother; he _did._ Sam was mad at him right now, even vindictive, but he wouldn't just reject all they'd been through the last decade like that. It had to be a shapeshifter.

Dean crouched down and drew the silver blade over the exposed skin above the wrist, breath freezing in his lungs when the skin didn't bubble and melt. He didn't believe it. Couldn't. No way. No, no, no—

 _Sam_ suddenly lurched upright and, as Dean jerked away, startled, shoved something that'd been aimed at Dean's chest into the meat below his left hip instead.

Dean bellowed, more rage than pain, and instead of falling back as the…whatever it was had intended, he pushed forward, barely feeling the tear of his flesh. It gave his opponent no room to maneuver as Dean stabbed it in the throat, the face, again in the chest, then sawed at its neck until its head came off for good measure.

Breathing hard, he toppled onto his rear, the fog of fury clearing. Leaving him with a body that looked like a butchered Sam, and a stomach that was suddenly trying hard to purge itself.

He leaned forward for a closer look, grunting when his leg reminded him he hadn't escaped unscathed. His jeans were already wet with blood from waist to mid-thigh, a bloody stick lying beside him revealing what the fake-Sam had stuck him with. Because it had to be a fake Sam, right?

And then the body seemed to sigh and shiver, melting down from a six-foot-five shaggy-haired hunter, to some sort of huge decapitated snake leaking black blood.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean spluttered and dodged back, pressing down against his leg with a hiss when it complained. But despite a missing brother and an impaled leg, Dean couldn't help feel a wave of relief. Right, of course, he'd known that. Well, maybe not the snake part, but the fake brother. No way he would've risked stabbing the real Sam, no matter how much of a little bitch he was being.

Dean eyed the body a long minute, thoughts and emotions twisting uncomfortably, before trying to get to his feet and failing. He swore softly: oh, yeah, leg. He tilted back enough to pull the handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it tight over the leaking wound. "Good enough," he muttered. Using the nearest tree for support, Dean tried to rise again and this time made it, mostly.

Okay. Okay, focus. He rubbed his arm over his sweaty face and glanced helplessly around. Big-ass snake shapeshifter. Didn't react to silver, so who knew how many other shapeshifter rules it broke? Maybe it didn't even need to keep its victims alive, but Dean refused that thought. Didn't necessarily live in sewers and caves, either, although…

Dean leaned in on his good leg to get a closer look at the snake. Were those…gills?  
Water. It was a water snake. Which meant it would keep any victims in a lair in or near water.

Dean yanked out his phone, wincing at the movement, and did a quick search.

A creek did run nearby, and there were two lakes not far away. But both victims had been in town. Dean was willing to bet Kaa's home was, too. Which left…

Ten minutes later, one slimy sea serpent gift-wrapped in the trunk, Dean pulled in behind a boarded-up house and stopped the car. There was a manhole cover not ten feet away, sunk in the grass, that, if his map was right, led to a culvert big enough to walk upright in. It was an ideal place to start.

If he weren't so freakin' tired.

The leg wound was nowhere near the artery, but it hadn't stopped bleeding since he'd been stabbed, and the handkerchief was dripping red. He was already feeling the effects, thoughts a little slower, gravity pulling at his bones, sick and cold in waves. But he didn't have time for this.

Dean reached under the seat, flailing until his hands found a rag. He added it to the sodden mess on his leg, then staggered out of the car to the rescue.

Gun in his waistband and a loop of rope around his shoulder, Dean glanced around briefly for witnesses before tackling the manhole cover. It took everything he had to lift and roll the heavy iron circle away, and he had to pause to recoup before he lowered himself down into the sewer.

The water was thankfully only a few inches deep and mostly rainwater. Dean sloshed heavily through it instead of stepping, trying to minimize the sound of his approach as he held the flashlight off-center. Maybe the snake he'd killed was the only one, but they'd been taught better than to presume, by both John Winchester and years on the job. Dean made his way as quietly as possible, trying not to think about what condition he'd find Sam in, or the way the pain in his leg got hotter and sharper with each step.

He turned the flashlight off when he caught sight of light ahead. A final bend, and the culvert opened into a large space lit faintly with some kind of pale yellow light. Dean dragged himself to the lip and carefully looked out.

The floor was a good half-dozen feet below him, the culvert's opening about midway up the wall. Four walls: it was a large square room with pipes going off in several directions, most Dean's eye level or higher, and with walls limned with some sort of phosphorescent material.

But all Dean had eyes for was his brother, sitting in the middle of the catchment space, tied to something under the water, if the way he was hunched over was any sign.

"Sam!" he barked.

Sam's head jerked his way. His hair was wet and in his face, hiding his eyes, but Dean knew it was him just as sure as he'd known the other Sam wasn't.

"Hang on," he yelled, and looked around the culvert's edge.

There: a handhold on either side just inside the lip. Dean shucked the rope coil and quickly knotted one end around the handhold. He gave it a strong yank: it held. Right, he eyed the water-covered floor below. Now he just had to get down. Piece of cake.

It ended up being more of a sprawl, but there were no points here for grace. Dean struggled up to his knees, the water shockingly cold against the heat in his leg. It roused him a little, though, and that and adrenalin somehow got him across to where Sam sat.

"Any more of them?" he ground out as he drew close and saw the new bruises on his brother's face.

"Only saw one," Sam said, then coughed, head hanging again.

As Dean reached him, he saw why. Not only was Sam tied to the floor, but his bindings—some kind of vines?—were woven up his arms, twice around his throat, then down his torso. They disappeared into the water at his waist, and Dean was willing to bet his legs were also similarly restricted.

It made him want to go back and cut the snake into little pieces, but Dean grit his teeth and pulled out his knife. "Try not to move." His hands were shaking with cold and weakness as he started sawing.

"It's dead?" Sam mumbled.

"Oh yeah."

"Y'all right?" Sam asked, also trying to be still but shivering. He didn't react when Dean nicked the skin of his throat, but swallowed hard when the tough green tendrils fell away.

"Peachy." Dean tore the strands off his arms, cutting where they were knotted tight. He had a moment of déjà vu to years ago when Sam had been snatched by druids and strapped down by vines, but these ropes were slimier, stretchier, like really strong seaweed. The thought made him snort a laugh as he reached Sam's wrists under the water, then the grate they were attached to, and yanked him free.

Sam's hands were swollen and stiff and pruney, probably all but useless from impeded blood flow. That was the only reason Dean didn't hand off his knife as he got to work freeing his brother's feet. His vision was starting to blur, thoughts muddled beyond the task at hand, the need to free Sam without hurting him further.

He didn't realize he was done and zoning out until Sam carefully pried the blade from his hand.

"Dean?"

He blinked. Man, it was freezing. "Yeah?"

"We need to go." Sam said it slowly, like he was stupid.

"Oh." He felt stupid. He was sitting in the water, probably why he was so cold. Although his leg was still burning, and Dean had a vague idea the sewage wasn't doing it any good.

"Where'd it get you?" Sam asked, and Dean realized those big paws were moving over him, tilting his head back, checking his arms.

"Leg," he muttered. "It can wait." He started to stand, sank back down again. "Crap."

"C'mon." Sam seemed to struggle, too, as he pushed to his feet: his hair was out of his face now, and he was pale even in the soft light. Had to be a fun case of pins-and-needles.

Like the really big one in his leg, and the thought made Dean huff another laugh.

"Dean, c'mon, man. Get up." Sam was pulling at him. Insistent son of a bitch.

Dean sighed, swallowing the unfairness of Sam telling him what to do when he never listened to Dean, and let himself be tugged up.

It felt like the snake was stabbing him in the leg again, this time with acid.

He flopped against Sam, screwing his eyes shut as he hung on to his brother's wet shirt. Sam was shaking, too, or maybe Dean was just shaking enough for the both of them, but he stood firm no matter how much Dean pulled at him. His brother had always kept him from going down. When Sam wasn't there, Dean did reckless stuff like make deals and get angry tattoos on his arm.

"Just a couple steps," Sam was saying. "Easy, easy."

Not so easy, but he tried for his brother. He had his arm around Sam, too, now, and wasn't sure who was holding up whom.

"Gotta look at your leg," Sam muttered.

"You say 'at to…all'a girls?" His voice sounded funny, far away, like he was watching himself from across the room.

They were at the wall, the rope. Sam wound his hand, still crisscrossed with red lines from the vines, in the rope and pulled. "You're going first."

Dean gave it a disinterested look. Too much trouble. He shook his head, letting his eyes shut; he could sleep it off here.

"Dean. Dean!"

 _Lemme alone, Sam_.

"Dean, you idiot." Sam sounded quiet but fierce. Even as a kid, he'd sounded like that when he was mad. "This is what I'm talking about! Ditching everything, running to the rescue even if it kills you." He punctuated it with a sharp yank of something around Dean's chest.

 _Because we're family and I love you._ That voice sounded clearer than the mumble that spilled out of his lips. "Shuddup, Sam." _I love you…but you don't love me the same, do you._

"Dean…" Sam seemed even farther away. There was pulling, and something knocked into his leg.

And then everything was gone. Including Dean himself.

00000

Sam swore as Dean went completely limp, and pulled harder on the rope.

"Damn it, Dean," he muttered as he tried to adjust his grip, not even sure what he was damning: his brother's selflessness, shapeshifters, a world that seemed to have it in for them.

Sam bit off a groan as he managed to drag his brother up after him into the culvert he'd come in through. He leaned the limp figure against the wall for a minute, gathering his strength as he untied the rope cinched under Dean's arms. He didn't have much time; even in the murk, Sam could see the bloom of red on Dean's left side. The soak in the sewer wouldn't help, either.

Shaking his head, Sam grabbed his brother under both arms and began to pull. His ribs were screaming, but they'd like carrying Dean even less. And he hadn't make a sound or stirred throughout Sam towing him up into the tunnel, so clearly it was up to Sam to get them out of there.

Typical. So typical, Sam growled as he dragged his brother's limp body through the culvert. Rush in headfirst without thinking, blind to everything but _save Sam._ Didn't matter if he got himself killed, the moron, or that if he'd just _thought it through_ , he could have gotten help, or figured out another way, or even just freakin' stopped the freakin' blood leaking out of his body first. But no, nothing was more important than _save Sam_.

There was a rumble of sound behind him. Sam turned, puzzled.

Water suddenly gushed from two of the highest culverts, pouring into the catchment they'd just crawled out of. Even as Sam watched with horrified fascination, it rose halfway up to the culvert they were in, and kept going. A few more minutes, and anything trapped in there would drown.

He swallowed. Looked at his unconscious brother. Then he carefully set his jaw and kept going.

He pulled. Stopped to pant. Talked to Dean. The water was rising in the tunnel, easing the strain on his body if not his mind. He pulled some more. Wiped away sweat. Pulled.

At the open manhole, the water was halfway up the wall. His hand under his brother's chin so Dean could breathe, Sam took his own careful breath. The spots in his vision didn't retreat.

He finally broke down and called 9-1-1 on the phone he'd rescued from Dean before it got soaked.

And then he just held on to the ladder with one arm, his brother with the other, and tried not to think about acts of desperation.

00000

He was cold and heavy. Dead, except he knew what dead felt like, and this wasn't it. Dreaming, maybe, but he wasn't sure where the dreams ended and reality began. Sam was there throughout, floaty and vague, and a body that was too weighted down to move.

"Sammm," he was pretty sure he heard himself slur at some point.

Warm hands on his arm.

"Snake inna trunk."

More sleep disguised as waking, or perhaps wakefulness disguised as dreams.

"Cold. Hur'ss. Sammm."

" _I'm here, Jerk."_

"Bish." He wasn't sure if he said it out loud or thought it.

Sam was sitting in a green vinyl chair, hands steepled in front of his face.

"Snake," Dean whispered, because it seemed important.

Sam's hands dropped, bloodshot eyes examining him. It felt…private. Except, he didn't have any places Sam couldn't go. "It was an _encantado."_ Sam's words grounded him. _"_ They're usually dolphins, but I guess we got lucky and rated the rare snake kind. They basically like messing with people, either taking their place or driving them insane."

He processed that slowly. "Trunk."

"I found it, Dean. I torched it."

"Huh."

He maybe drifted a while after that.

Sam was on the other side of the room when he was paying attention again.

"Son'v'abitch." Dean's head felt put back together wrong, but he couldn't seem to find it to feel for sure.

Sam was staring at him once more, expressionless. "How'd you know?"

Dean blinked at him.

Sam made a face. "The shapeshifter. You said it was being me. How'd you know it wasn't?"

He'd said that? He didn't remember. Didn't remember much, period. "'Was bein' even more…" he had to take a breath, "…'f a bitch 'an you."

Sam looked like he'd bitten a lemon. Dean would have told him he was proving his point except it was way too much trouble.

And, honestly, he didn't really like it when Sam looked like that.

"Dunno," he mumbled. "I' was…hated me. You don' hate me. Right?" Crap, his brain was slower than his mouth.

Sam's face twisted. "No," he said quietly. "I don't hate you."

He could talk, or look, but both was too much. He let his eyes fall shut. "S'ill trus'ed you."

He dozed again. Maybe felt that hand back on his arm. Someone pushed ice chips in his mouth and it was fantastic. He should thank them.

He dreamed Sammy was six or so again, telling him excitedly about the game of forts and soldiers some of the neighborhood kids invited him to play. His voice rattled on, happy and trusting, and it made him happy, too. Sometimes Sammy's joy was all he had, but it was enough.

"You wanna know about you now?"

No, he really didn't. He was starting to be pretty sure the Mark on his arm damned him, his brother was one wrong word away from leaving, and Kevin was dead. He preferred six-year-old Sammy.

"I told 'em you fell into the sewer, stabbed your leg on something. It was full of dirt and bark, man. Cas's gonna come in a couple days and heal it, but it's been pretty bad, Dean. It got infected and you lost a lot of blood."

He sighed, pried his eyes open. No way this was a dream, not with all that bad news and Sam sounding so righteous. "So?" he rasped.

Sam turned away from the window, eyebrows climbing. "So? Dean, you could've _died_. Your organs were shutting down from blood loss, your leg's still a mess. If Cas couldn't heal you, you'd probably be limping the rest of your life."

"So?" he repeated. Not even trying to be an ass, for once, just too tired to pretend.

Storm clouds were gathering on Mt. Sam. He stepped closer, his face tight. "Dean—"

"You'd let me die anyway, right? You said, same situation: that's what you'd do." His gaze wandered the room, idly tracked some birds flying past the window. "And you're thinkin' about packing it in, finishing the Trials anyway." The low burn of anger gave him the strength to spit out the words and look at his brother again, who had stopped to listen. "So tell me, Sam, what does it matter if I take care of myself or not, huh? Who cares?"

"You should care," Sam said without heat.

"Yeah, well." The energy drained out of him as quickly as it'd come, and he sank back into the bed. His leg twinged. "I'm tired."

There was a pause. Sam swallowed.

Then nodded his head a little, and said the only thing that mattered.

"I'm not going to finish the Trial."

00000

Dean's eyes were wet.

They'd had arguments before where they'd choked up, too full of loss and anger and fear to suck it up, but they were still guys. They didn't usually cry in front of each other.

But Dean was on drugs and fresh off a serious injury, not really in control of himself. His face was cracked open with hope and pain, and Sam knew if he witnessed what came next, they'd both be mortified.

"I'm gonna, uh, get some…yeah." He hitched a thumb vaguely at the door and hurried out without waiting for a response.

Then turned and slumped into the wall.

It wasn't something he'd worked out ahead of time. Sure, that was one of the many thoughts circling the drain the last few days as he'd waited for Dean to stabilize, but he hadn't made a decision about the last Trial one way or another. Not until Dean was staring at him defiantly, waiting for Sam to agree that no one in the world cared if he lived or died.

And Sam…couldn't.

He couldn't. And yeah, he'd scourge himself for being a hypocrite later, for continuing this cycle of sacrifice and surrender, but right now he just…

Sam rubbed his hands tiredly through his face and back through his hair. There were actually good reasons not to finish the Trial. Dean was right, they didn't know what that would do to Hell-bound souls or the Veil. For all they knew, they could be playing right into Abaddon's plans.

And the Mark on his brother's arm was increasingly worrying Sam. From the brief lapses when Dean had given in to the thing—and one really ventilated snake was probably one of them—he feared it was possible to lose Dean to it completely.

And if Dean had been five minutes later with the rescue, if he'd put himself first, taken the time to sew his leg up or apply a proper tourniquet, Sam would be drowned and dead. His stupid heroics had saved Sam, again. Sam wasn't hypocrite enough to not be grateful for his brother's priorities.

And when he'd collapsed into his brother afterward, Sam's heart had stopped, too.

So, yeah, he straightened slowly. He wasn't going to finish the Trial. Dean was still a selfish idiot, and Sam still hadn't fully forgiven him for what he'd done. But Sam wasn't going to be equally selfish and put his brother through what, Sam had to admit now, he himself was so desperate to avoid.

"We'll find another way," he murmured to himself, glancing back at Dean's door. Deal with the Mark and Abaddon and Metatron and Gadreel, and then figure this out. Piece of cake, right?  
With the barest of smiles, Sam squared his shoulders and set off to find some pie.

 **The End**


End file.
